Still Holding

by Bruce Wagner

  What a surprise.

  I deserve this. (Viv.) I do, I do. I motherfuckin Queer Eye do. (Ty.)

  Everyone came together.

  Baby still got the touch

  That was cool (Alf)

  The Three Mysteries

  . . .

  THE NEW YEAR

  Four Affirmations

  SIDD KITCHENER McCadden was now eight months old, and a regular at Peet’s Coffee on Montana. There were a lot of regulars at Peet’s, and Lisanne often wondered what those people did for a living aside from drinking tea and lattes. They probably wondered the same thing of her.

  In the early morning, she left the baby in the care of a nanny and went jogging along the bluff. The regulars tended to congregate outside, even if it was freezing, and she would see them as she drove to Ocean Avenue. The ones who preferred to stay indoors had special places to sit that they guarded with their lives. When she came at about ten, after collecting her son, the clique was still remarkably intact. They oohed and aahed over “little Sidd” (they assumed he was a Sidney), but she didn’t make small talk. Lisanne held them in benign contempt, wondering which was the actor, model, stylist, which was the kept person or whatnot. Sometimes they appeared in absurd spandex cycling outfits; sometimes they celebrated each other’s birthdays with slices of cake which they tried to foist on whatever innocents had the misfortune to sit close by. They didn’t seem wealthy and no one was famous, although the rich and famous did pass through, like Meg Ryan and her son or Kate Capshaw in jodhpurs or Madeleine Stowe and her sweet husband, who looked like a short, stocky dentist. Everyone from local yoga came to Peet’s, and Lisanne held out hope she would see Marisa or Renée so she could strike up a conversation about the terrible thing that had happened to Kit. She didn’t think that would be inappropriate, but they never showed.

  After Viv’s miscarriage and her epiphany that Siddhama was the child of Kit Lightfoot (a revelation she guarded from Philip and everyone else), Lisanne had begun to study vipassana in earnest, meeting regularly with a Westside group. They did their sitting at a Zen center tucked behind a post office in Santa Monica and at members’ houses too. Sometimes there were all-night yazas, but mostly they met on weekday afternoons. She liked vipassana because it was the oldest form of meditation, a technique the Buddha himself was said to have practiced. Philip was supportive even though he no longer evinced much interest in things Buddhist. (She wasn’t sure that he ever really had.) Still, he built Lisanne an airy cabin on the grounds where she could do her ashtanga and even let himself be dragged to a loving-kindness workshop just up the road, in Temescal.

  • • •

  THE SATURDAY RETREAT was led by teachers from a place up north called Spirit Rock. Lisanne and Philip joined about twenty others in sitting and walking meditations. No one was allowed to speak except to repeat four affirmations:

  . . . May I/you be safe and protected from harm.

  . . . May I/you be happy and live with joy.

  . . . May I/you be healthy and strong, or if that’s not possible, may I/you accept my/your limitations with grace.

  . . . In my/your outer life, may I/you live with the ease of well-being.

  The affirmations were recited while visualizing first oneself; then a “benefactor” (someone who had bestowed kindnesses or generosity); then a friend; then a “neutral person”; a “difficult person”; and finally, beings one did not personally know.

  The idea was to learn to transmit metta (a Pali word often translated into English as loving-kindness) to all creatures, human and animal, seen and unseen, newly born and newly dying. The teacher said it was a “practice of the heart.” He said that the source of all joy arose from wishing happiness to others and that the source of all sorrow arose from wishing happiness only to oneself.

  Lisanne visualized Kit for each permutation. Kit Lightfoot was her Self, her benefactor, her friend, her neutral person, her difficult person, and someone she did not really know. Before the final walking meditation, they were told to send metta to all beings encountered on their way—the hikers, the birds, and even the trees. (“Though in classic Buddhism,” said the teacher, somewhat reluctantly, “trees lack true consciousness.”) The group dispersed, and Lisanne meandered before climbing the hillside trail. As she cleared the ridge, she could see five meditators standing in a small depression, staring down at their feet. She got closer and instinctively slowed, wondering if something lay dead in the dirt. Then she saw it: a snake, sunning itself in the path. Its rattle was translucent and dirty yellow, like a wicked pacifier. The metta-heads bombed it with love and then it started to move. All eyes followed as the reptile slithered through the grass, visible for about seventy-five yards before vanishing. She wished that Philip had been there, but he had gone off in a different direction. For Lisanne, it was the highlight of the workshop, but she never told him about the encounter. That would have been smug, and the teachings were against it.

  • • •

  THROUGH THE SANGHA of old and new connections, she became acquainted with a group of practitioners who knew Kit before the mishap. And that was how one day she casually, yet with great portent, came to be invited to do service in a modest home at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac.

  The Banks of Riverside

  THE OLD HOUSE sat comfortably in its skin.

  Spiffed and restuccoed, spit-polished, refurbished, a wall around it now, nothing too tall or ostentatious but nicely done. Thick enough to be serious.

  Some new additions graced driveway and curbside—Kit’s jet black G-wagen, for one. (A neighborhood boy hand-washed it each week.) His fab old forties pickup, for another. On the lawn, the storied Indian, teardrop Triumph, and Harley with the handlebar fringe luxuriously hibernated beneath a locked-down tarp. A silver Range Rover with little shark gill vents was there too, blocking the drive—for Burke’s use only. The stately, beloved, die-hard DeVille—the junk car gone up on blocks a month or so before Kit came to scan Rita Julienne’s love letters—was gone. Scrapped. Tula, the Fijian bodyguard, spent most of his time sleeping out front in a maroon Crown Victoria, a detective’s car acquired at auction.

  A veritable auto show, but the neighbors don’t mind.

  The actor, under his father’s imposing, vigilant care, could have been stashed anywhere: Arizona, Jackson Hole, Northern California. Canada, Cabo, the Dominican. Hell, anyplace at all could be transformed into a one-man state-of-the-art rehab. The decision might even have been made, with full cooperation of the trust, to fortify the (already secure) Benedict Canyon compound, bunking nurses, M.D.s, therapists, and cooks in guest rooms and guesthouse, stowing sanghanistas in the zendo. But Mr. Lightfoot knew such a maneuver would have, at least in the public’s eye, made him house nigger; easier for the powers that be to extricate him too, once his boy got better. No, it was all about perception—always was, always would be. He didn’t like the view from the back of the bus much. Never did. He would need a modicum of control from the get-go if he was to have a fighting chance against those legal Goliaths.

  He lobbied for Riverside and won. Won big.

  • • •

  ALL THESE YEARS, the old room has been kept pristine, with its desktop aquarium and blackened-pocket catcher’s mitt straight off the cover of Saturday Evening Post. The shelves in the den were unapologetically lined with clippings from magazines (Cela found the beautiful frames at the Rose Bowl swap): Kit on the receiving end of the People’s Choice, the Golden Globe, the MTV-this, the Show West–that—Kit with Nicole and Bob Dylan, Meryl, Prince Charles, some crippled kids, the Dalai Lama, Rosie, Oprah, Giuliani and the Singing Fireman, Clinton, Sinatra, Mick, Hockney, Mandela and Sting, Kofi and Gwyneth, George W. and Condoleezza.

  Shots of Viv had been weeded out.

  • • •

  (THE BACKYARD DIDN’T have a pool, but Burke installed an aboveground one with a therapeutic wave machine for Wonderboy to kick against. He bought a humongous steel sectional barbecue too. Cost four grand. Kit l
oved Cela’s burgers more than In-N-Out’s.)

  • • •

  ALL THE WHITE carpets Rita Julienne Lightfoot ghost-walked for years before the divorce, those bitching, toxic, whiny years before she got the crop of cooz tumors . . . All the white carpets, once compulsively scrubbed by that fucking harridan, now torn up and replaced with thick pile.

  • • •

  NO ONE COULD DENY there was a profound folkloric purity, a demoniac simplicity—the stuff of modern pop myth—in Burke’s arranging for the prodigal son’s rehab to be in Riverside. Keep it simple. (He told Cela that it was a case of “the swallowed returning to Capistrano.”) The homely, homespun formula was a major hit with the media too, featured by every conceivable outlet of the entire wired, warring planet. Lightfoot Senior became his own spin doctor, kiboshing rumors that he was trash, a mercenary, deadbeat dad: debonair Burke now vibed caretaker extraordinaire. The lawyers could be counted on to draw out the travails of executorship in order to continue collecting their hourly rape fee. Months went by with nothing resolved. Funds flowed minorly, purse strings tightly cinched; the battle was far from over, and enemies abounded. The estate paid a low-end stipend for a private security detail—Tula, force of one—and an allowance to Kit, which technically, his father could dip into. (The stipend did not pay for Tula’s meals or overtime, and Burke liked to say he was going broke with all the lunch and dinner runs to KFC.) The lawyers were trying to humiliate him, break him down—get him to settle, then book. To Vegas, or wherever. Out of their face. Classic war of attrition. Make him throw in the towel so they could exact their nefarious tolls, play out their godforsaken sociopathic entitlement motives. Rob him of what was his, by blood. Well, fuck them. Y’all can go fuck y’all. As they say in the South.

  • • •

  RIVERSIDE LOVED IT.

  Because the ancestral home sat on NOT A THROUGH STREET beside a moatlike culvert, access was relatively easy to control. With the enthusiastic urging of residents, the city council quickly approved a gated checkpoint. Unless permitted, only locals were allowed entry to the five-square-block area in question. Per special ordinance of the mayor, those trustees of the stalkerazzi—helicopters, small planes, and hot-air balloons—were naturally disallowed in the airspace above. The neighborhood rallied round its fallen hero amidst a tide of global ink, for it really did take a village: Riverside thrilled at its own retooling of image, torqued from homicidal methamphetamine shithole to nurturing municipality. Burke Lightfoot reveled too in his once vaguely hostile hometown’s embrace, rejoicing in their newfound antimedia puritanism. He renewed his bonds of affection with this brave new world, county of movers and shakers, of speedy utilitarians, of fast learners that he’d never after all abandoned, kingdom of civic morality and pragmatism, this adroit, far-seeing, unexpectedly with-it protectorate whose vivacious, obstreperous, out-of-left-field support had been counterintuitive, and left him with nothing but praise and exultation.

  Always, a flotilla of media vans and trucks on the neighborhood’s outskirts and the small industry of shiny catering campers that sprung up to feed them (with proper permits, further enriching city coffers). Newshounds made the requisite, random inquiries but were shined by the locals re: purported condition of and/or formal or casual neighborly encounters with the tragic superstar who (allegedly) shuffled, shambled, lurched, and recovered among them. It was unprecedented, but neither grainy image nor insipid anecdote had yet been leaked or sold to tabloids. No bark and no byte. The united front was impossibly, utterly, wholesomely Capraesque, almost as much of a story as its subject. Had a touch of the Branch Davidian too.

  Lawns were tidier. This godly little acre took on a lush utopian tinge, a peculiarly Middle-American Shangri-la ruled over by Lord Lightfoot, natty ringmaster and gemütlich Wizard of Kit. If one looked with a very keen eye (the streetlamps did not cast a wide or bright light), one might see them strolling at eventide—wounded wild-child and martyred keeper. By sunny Riverside day (and by night too), troops of saffron-robed monks came and went, polite, amiable, unobtrusive, discreetly stitching themselves into the community quilt. Burke used them for running errands and cleaning house. They engaged Kit in physical therapy, for the father did not trust those sent from the hospital; after their visits, memorabilia seemed to go missing.

  Only a few of the old cronies ever called or even asked to stop by. Kiki came just once (it’s true she checked in a lot, but Mr. Lightfoot discouraged actual visits), as did Robin Williams and Edward Norton—but not his so-called soul mate ex-fiancée or Alf, putative running partner and self-proclaimed best friend, now rumored to be dining on Viv’s snatch, or any of the studio parasites, business managers, or legal eagles who had coolly leeched so many hundreds of millions off his handsome hardworking boy. Fine, then. Better he be ministered to by selfless monks.

  Larry King and Barbara Walters called, to cajole. Barbara wanted an interview in the worst way. “I’m very, very, patient,” she said slyly. Tough Jew. Ton of moxie. They flirted over time, Burke putting her through his time-tested charmathon workout. Whenever Barbara hung up—after saying she’d call again next week, which she did, like clockwork—he thought: Captivating lady. A real pro, and a hottie in her day, too.

  Becca in Venice

  BECAUSE OF RUSSELL CROWE’S conflicting film schedules, Look-Alikes was shot over the holidays and into the new year. Becca finished the gig just before Thanksgiving. She never stayed on to do camera-double work because Drew asked that her regular double take over. (Drew was loyal that way.) She was kept abreast of any juicy set scuttlebutt by a second A.D. whom she’d furtively kissed on a day Rusty had been mean to her. Lately, there were a lot of those kinds of days.

  The big gossip was that the true Russell (his wife, who was expecting, had only been in L.A. for part of the shoot) had some sort of dalliance-dustup with the true Drew and that the Billy Bob look-alike was hitting bull’s-eyes with all the female look-alikes (and one of the males), even though he had hopelessly lost his heart to the true and very young Scarlett Johansson. Which was funny because, as the second A.D. pointed out, the true Scarlett and the true Billy Bob already had a dalliance (on-screen) in that movie where Billy Bob played a barber. The second A.D. said that the true Scarlett, who may or may not have had a dalliance with the true Benicio, definitely “had it going on” with the true John Cusack. The second A.D. said that he thought the true JC was maybe having something with either the true Meryl (who had a small, very hip cameo) or the Meryl look-alike, or both. Becca doubted the very married Mrs. Streep would be having an affair with anyone, and suddenly all the second A.D.’s whispered intelligences were put into question.

  She was pleased that Rusty had spoken of his counterpart with such genuine respect and affection. They’d already shot a few scenes, and Rusty apparently had held his own. He told Becca that “the Gladiator” (though he never called him that to his face) was nothing short of a gent. They’d even had a drink together.

  • • •

  LIVING IN VENICE was fun. Becca loved going for jazzy little walks on Abbot Kinney and having drinks at Primitivo. She loved popping into retro furniture boutiques and making mental lists of what to buy for her future hillside home. (She was thinking Los Feliz. That’s where Spike and Sofia lived, and the chief of police too.) Rusty’s apartment was cramped and moldy, and even though she enjoyed hearing the sound of the ocean, she was embarrassed to find herself pining for the absurdly decorated nouveau riche Dunsmore aerie.

  The desire for a house tugged at her in the way she imagined the desire for a child one day would—craving nest before eggs—and coincided, as usual, with wanting her mom to come from Waynesboro for a visit. She didn’t like the idea of Dixie staying at some Surfside or Ocean View–type motel but couldn’t afford to put her up at Shutters or the Viceroy, either. (Her mom would insist on paying her own way, anyhow.) But it wasn’t like she felt she needed to shoot for the moon either. Aside from being a “Hot Property” junkie, she was alway
s scanning the classifieds in the Times; there were lots of great places for half a million or just a little bit more. Becca had a feeling in her bones that she and Rusty had set a course toward that price range, but her practical, thrifty nature prevailed—she resolved that if it wasn’t soon to happen, she would bide her time. She could see living communally, if she had to. She read in a magazine that, since her divorce, Drew had been staying with a passel of roommates (like in that old sitcom on TV Land that Becca and Annie liked to watch when they got stoned) and her dogs, Templeton (half Lab, half chow), Vivian, and Flossie (the Lab who saved her life on the night of the fire) in a bright orange—orange!—three-bedroom house. Though maybe that was journalistic wishful thinking, as none of it seemed to sync with what Becca had read vis-à-vis the nine-thousand-square-foot gated grounds and servant’s quarters, though it did seem possible that the orange dwelling was on some other part of the property and the publicists were just downplaying how huge and amazing Casa Barrymore really was. (Sometimes they worked like that, in collusion with staff writers, adding or subtracting details in order to make the celeb lifestyle optimally palatable to readership, in terms of the up- or downscaleness of each specific publication.) Becca loved the instant family idea. She’d move Annie and Larry in, forthwith.

  Waiting for the gynecologist, she found a really good article in Bazaar. The cover story said that while Drew wholeheartedly embraced her role as godmother to Courtney Love’s daughter, Frances Bean, she wasn’t yet ready to have kids herself. And when she did, she would never adopt—the implication being that the adoption trend was the result of vain actresses dealing with their sick notions of body image. Becca had never even thought of it like that (instead believing that famous young stars adopted because they were infertile), but the statement rang true. Drew had really opened her eyes.